


Four Steps to a Normal Family...and One Step Further

by sakurazawa



Category: Shades of London Series - Maureen Johnson
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakurazawa/pseuds/sakurazawa
Summary: After the defeat of Syd and Sadie Smithfield-Wyatt, Rory and Stephen navigate the uncertain footing of a relationship they didn't expect to have.A story in five parts.





	

Step One - The Right Word

They had accomplished step one as far as Stephen was concerned, though looking back he wasn’t exactly certain when. He and Rory had managed not only to defeat a pair of self-styled demigods, but to come out of the situation with both their sanity and senses of humor--insofar as he could claim to have had either from the start. More than that, they’d come out of it with each other, and the knowledge that their lives were incontrovertibly bound.

  
Of course, there were still moments when Stephen thought he had to be getting something wrong. Rory couldn’t possibly have decided to stay in London, or part of the Shades, or with him, _forever_. At times, the concept of holding onto her was as daunting as catching a firework and trying to call it yours. She just seemed too vibrantly alive to have consigned herself to an existence of gray skies, ghosts, and an emotionally stifled British...well, they still didn’t have a word for it. “Boyfriend” felt too superficial, too light and temporary. Soulmate struck the feeling of irreversible connection, but rang a little too much of tarot cards and healing angels for Stephen’s taste.

Neither of them had suggested “lover”, even if it was true. He was certain the term had crossed both their minds. It had crossed his early that morning, when her breath was on his shoulder, and he’d woken gradually to the feel of skin and building heat, uncertain who had been the first to kiss or tug at a shirt hem. But that word jabbed at something embarrassingly showy and evocative of a physical relationship that had no trajectory, and thus was bound to end. (Odd, for a word with “love” at its root.)

The problem was, he didn’t stand steadily enough on that first step to know what to call it. It still seemed foolish to accept anything good as a matter of course. Enough evenings stuck in hotel rooms in Austria (Prague, Florence, Helsinki, Lichtenstein, Paris) with only foreign TV shows, foreign service, and the lingering smell of his mother’s perfume had taught him not to expect that he mattered to anyone.

Rory always seemed to know when he started thinking that way, even if he was simply staring down at a steeping mug of tea, as he was now.  
She set a clean mug next to his, and bumped him with her hip. “What’s up?”

Stephen fished out a second tea bag and pulled the tag. “Thinking,” he said, and dropped the bag into her mug, half hoping she wouldn’t push for a better explanation. The rest of him hoped she would, so they could talk this out, and he could steady himself.

Rory poured hot water into her mug. “Well, I figured you were thinking, since the world hadn’t exploded or something. What about?”

Stephen’s mouth twitched. She always managed to make that happen. He swapped their mugs, setting the already-steeped tea in front of her. Rory didn’t question the gesture,

just reached for a spoon and let him assemble his words.

It took a moment for Stephen to consolidate his thoughts. He watched her pour milk, sketching the outline of her arm with his eyes. There was no tone to it, just slim bones and softness. Like everything with Rory, the strength was hidden. He reached without meaning to and the back of his fingers brushed the goosebumps on her arm. It still amazed him sometimes, that he was allowed to do that.

Rory boosted herself onto the counter. It was something Regina had done a lot, and had been instantly familiar. It put her closer to eye-level, which he suspected was her unconscious way of equalizing their respective positions in the conversation. She took a sip of her tea and raised her eyebrows at him as if to say _, well_?

He took a breath. “I keep wondering what to call...this. You. None of the terms I think of seem to fit the relationship how I want them to.”  
Rory didn’t laugh, and the tension in his back relaxed. Instead, her dark eyes widened.

“I seriously thought it was just me!” she said. “I have no idea what to call you to other people. Boo calls you my boyfriend, and I’m sort of, like...well, I mean, you’re not not my boyfriend I guess, but…I don’t know.”

He nodded, leaning into the counter in relief. If it was a neurotic sort of problem, at least it was one they shared.

“That terminology doesn’t quite work for us.”

“Nope. And everything else I think of sounds stupid except…”

Stephen paused, spoon poised at the rim of his mug. He fought the urge to prompt her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What do you think of…’partner’. Like, it sounds like we’re not straight or something, but it sort of works anyway? Better than the other stuff.”

Partner. The word zipped around his brain, bouncing off a variety of connotations and usages. Greek root, borrowed by Latin, business and love and sex and dancing. Strangely, that last one felt the most accurate. Stephen hadn’t done a great deal of dancing, but these last few months felt like a protracted version of that familiar, anxious moment at the start of a song. As if it had taken all the courage he’d had to extend his hand, and she’d actually taken it. Now the music was swelling around them in opening measures, one-two-three, one-two three.

First step.

“I can see that one,” he said.

As he lifted his mug for a sip of tea, Rory reached out and stopped the cup. Before he could process what she was doing, she had plucked the mug from his grasp and set it on the counter. Stephen’s body tensed, hit with that mingled rush of panic and anticipation that still came when he’d had enough time to doubt. He knew what was about to happen. It just seemed impossible that she wanted it with him, when she could do so much better.

“Whatever your brain is doing right now, stop it,” she said. She pulled at his sweater until he moved in front of her. Stephen held his breath. He wanted to touch her. He was fairly certain she wanted the same thing. So what kept stopping him?

He couldn’t look at her, so he studied the flecked countertop.

“Do you not _want_ to kiss me, or something?”

Surprise jerked through him. His head snapped up. “What?”

“Do you want to or not?”

He stared at her for a moment, fighting to say the words that still frightened him. “Of course I do.”

“What’s stopping you, then?” Another tug at his sweater, and now her heels were wrapping around the back of his legs. His brain supplied an unhelpful memory from that morning, when her legs had been wrapped around him in a very similar way. How had that been so uncomplicated? How had he managed to let himself be with her so easily, only hours ago? Why was it so difficult now? Probably because he was awake.

“I’m my own worst enemy,” he said. “When I have enough time to think, I have enough time to remember what a miserable sod I am, and that you deserve better.”

She watched him a moment, her expression unchanging. Then she slid her hands into his hair and pulled him close. “Uhuh, yeah,” she said, and then, when she was right against his mouth, “you clearly need either less time or less thinking.”

Stephen’s ability to think was already tripping over an uncomplicated rush of warmth. Part of him wanted to fight it, but she was already past his defenses, blunting every sharp-cornered “should” and “shouldn’t” like little sandcastles under the surf’s insistent caress. Her thumbs rubbed behind his ears. He got lightheaded.

“Less thinking,” he said. She smiled against his mouth and kissed him.

Reality shrank to the size of the kitchen, and as her ceramic-warmed hands cupped his jaw, Stephen surrendered to instinct. What else could he do, with Rory pressing forward against him, her knees pressing into his sides. Every particle focused completely on her, bright and warm and kissing him, leading him through the first blundering step. His partner.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the fact that Maureen calls her partner "my partner", and because I love that, and terminology matters to me, and I just...*flail*


End file.
